


Hellfire

by pearypie



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Bloodlust, Corruption, F/M, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 11:29:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12886914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: au: hellfire (or, a divergence in sin)He is half-mad with arousal when her blood finally seeps into the plentiful earth.(Or: The composition of hate, when aroused, is the most voracious of all seven sins - lust.)





	Hellfire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thaliaarche](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thaliaarche/gifts).



She was warm—soft and warm and smelling of pears and rain water. Her slim, frail hands were delicate instruments, better suited for caressing spring blossoms and children’s cheeks than the cleaning of pots and pans. It is something Sebastian notices when they prepare tea side by side; she, as silent as still water, and he, as efficient as his earthly facade would permit. From the corner of his eye he can see the bruises—scattered petal-like across her pale skin—in various shades of violet, some yellowed and in the final stages of self-repair while others were an angry, indomitable magenta, hiding broken blood vessels and unfathomable pain.

He smiles when she hands him the decorated tea tin, filled to the brim with moonflowers and sage.

“Are we attempting a poisoning, Miss Angela?” His tongue is wicked but his eyes are bright and he thinks he can taste the flushed rose of her tinted cheeks.

“N-no!” She looks tantalizing, half-terrified by his words. “M-master Barrymore enjoys their fragrance so I am instructed to scatter the petals around the tea tray.” She looks at him with as much courage as she can, “I would n-never try and purposely injure my master, sir.” 

“Please,” he extends his hand to cover hers, “I am merely one hell of a butler.”

Her eyes are downcast when he kisses the palm of her hand, tasting sweet apples, fallen grace, and the infinite possibility of the cosmos coursing through her veins. 

_Sing, heavenly muse—_

 

It is in the blue of evening, when the moon is but a sliver of silverly delight, that he meets her again. The air is soaked with the fragrance of waterlilies from the nearby pond and the delicate scent of the woman next to him.

“Miss Angela,” he greets with the softness of snow. His own master rests inside, fast asleep with three idiots on guard.

She, in turn, murmurs a quiet hello that somehow blends into the cashmere solitude. 

Her eyes, after all, are fixed on the starry eve.

They exchange no more words but Sebastian cannot help but drift closer, ruby eyes ablaze with a fire that he has kept contained since contracting himself to his little lord. It has been many a century since he has seen one of her—too long, perhaps but it matters not.

He wants her to bleed for the pleasure of touch.

His lips quirk into an odd little half-smirk as one hand comes to graze at the high neckline of her dress collar. He feels soft, frayed cotton and the heat of her warmed skin.

She turns to look at him, a fearful symmetry of curiosity and lust coloring her cheeks and unopened mouth. 

“Sir, I—“ 

Her collar is ripped open before the words can fully formulate and Sebastian revels at the sight of unmarred flesh, stretched thin against fragile bone.

He leans in close, fingertips grazing the small of her back. “You are a long way from home, Miss Angela.” His breath smells of pomegranates and winter plums and he wonders if he knows the restraint that has been channeled into those words. If he could, he would strip her bare and tear into her until her mangled flesh resembled a Venetian sunset. “Indulge me,” he takes his hand from her back to the curve of her hip, “tell me _why._ ” Sebastian breathes, deciding then and there that the gold in her veins, once spilled, would turn crimson.

Her breathing, a staccato beat that she does not need, trembles ever so slightly.

“It is not very often that a demon can sense a divine presence—particularly when they do not wish to be made known.” She confesses.“You are a strange one, Sebastian Michaelis.” 

“Centuries of practice is all it takes.”

And suddenly the white muslin of her petticoats is ripped in two. He can smell the ambrosial scent of her arousal and the vain greed of his demonic ego preens at the notion because angels are difficult to come by, but not her. No, his gloved fingers leave a trail of fire before coming to rest at the apex between her thighs; she presses herself against him and he dips in further, watching as the lavender in her eyes darken to a wild Byzantium as he begins to stroke her. 

His lips come to her ear, voice smoky like black vapor. “What do you intend to do, Miss Angela?” 

Her hands come to cling onto his shoulders as she arches back, breathing erratic as he continues to touch her, the soft abrasion of his gloves rubbing against her delicate folds. Soft and wet, like dripping peaches.

“I—this…this _world,_ I must…must— _ah!_ ”

“I’m waiting, Miss Angela.” He breathes, allowing just a sliver of his essence to permeate the creamy skin of this strange fallen angel.

And it is utterly _intoxicating._ Her breathing stutters and she becomes rigid in his arms, one hand coming to brace herself against his chest as tendrils of poisonous hate continue to creep into her celestial veins, forcing their way through heavenly gates that sing and scream as he touches her—

“Mmh— _stop,_ you cannot—this _cannot_ —“ she tries to speak but he can no longer hear, can no longer see or smell or think of anything besides the warmth barricaded within her and how easy it would be to steal it all away.

She comes when he has three fingers pressed inside her, falling into the him the way sinners do. 

“Miss Angela,” he breathes, cold and harsh in her ear, “tell me why you’re here.”

Her eyes are hazy—unfocused—as she rests half-slumped against him. “I—“

“No lies.” He adds lightly, his free hand coming to graze at her breast. “We, as servants, have an obligation do we not? To our masters? Our… _betters,_ isn’t that right?” He laughs and it is a hateful, crude laugh that he delights in. 

She has, after all, been set aside especially for him.

“Miss Angela.” The words are a purr, soft and silken as he wonders just how loud she might scream when his touch is all she knows.

“The… _tainted,_ ” she pushes at his clothed chest frantically, and with a touch of divine madness. “Let me _go_ , let me be! The tainted…the tainted they _must_ be purified, do you not see? Let me purify them, let me make them whole—let me make _you_ whole—“ she writhes against him, desperate to break free but she has, at last, become far too interesting to let go.

_Ah._

Sebastian lowers himself onto her as she falls to the granite ground. The oxblood of her mouth tempts him and, as a creature who has known so little of restraint, he takes.

Forcefully and horridly their lips meet and he bites down on her, tasting something that scorches the inside of his mouth with a sweetness that intoxicates. He pins both of her hands above her head with more force than necessary, allowing the harsh granite to rip and tear through fragile skin.

He is half-mad with arousal when her blood finally seeps into the plentiful earth. 

“Miss Angela you are a _fool,_ ” his face flickers before her eyes and he allows her a glimpse of the blackness that resides underneath, of the starvation he must now sate. “And your task is futile. I am bound by hell and consent to obey and serve but tonight…tonight I will _consume._ ”

He swallows her cries with a kiss, tearing into her mouth with a hatred that could almost be mistaken for love.

Under the pale moonlight, the white of his gloved hands morph and change—a bestial talon of black marrow claws its way to the surface, ebony limbs etched with markings unknown filter through papier-mâché skin, the mark of hell seethes, drinking in the sight of her pale, soft breasts—of the angel made flesh.

 

And so her chaste blood spills, staining him scarlet. 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Inspired by William Shakespeare’s 'The Rape of Lucrece' where Roman solider Tarquin desires a conquest of the beautiful and chase Lucrece, ultimately raping her in the dead of night. (Also wrote this while listening to Judge Frollo’s ‘Hellfire’ sequence which fit surprisingly well!) 
> 
> (Also for thaliaarche, who's like the only other person I know that's intrigued by Seb/Angela XD)


End file.
